I was anxious.

The venue was steep and not welcoming to the wheels of a chair and the full weight of a grown man. But this plan had been in motion for months. I had bought the tickets wanting to gift my brother an experience of live music we’d not forget - a night to embed itself in the memories of our minds.

I drove along the road closest to the venue passing car after car parked in the prime positions. Even the wheelchair parks were taken. We were getting further and further away from the entrance but Andrew sat passenger side with a quiet stoicism. “That’s ok, we’ll figure it out.” I said, turning the car around to pull up awkwardly in the middle of the road but right out the front. Hazzards on, I jumped out, popped the boot and began the all too familiar removal of the chair. Owning a car with a very small boot meant I had to remove the wheels from the chair, put the wheels on the chair, remove the wheels from the chair and put the wheels back on the chair every time we went out!

Parking sorted. We walked the outdoor grounds of the Sydney Myer Music Bowl and found that the only appropriate spot to put the breaks on the chair and enjoy a little pre-show drink was smack bang in the middle of the smoking section. Delightful. All things considered, it was a beautiful evening, a light breeze, no rain and soft clouds spread the sky.

We were sitting in the front section of the venue, which was down a very steep and hairy looking walkway - something I wouldn’t have thought much about before having a brother with physical disabilities. I tried to organise disability access beforehand but this was, shall we say, not a confidence building exercise! To be honest, my memory is blank regarding how we actually made our way to the seats, but I know I wrangled a staff member to sort it out, someone in a bright orange safety vest that looked like they knew what they were doing. All the while, Andrew calmly waited. He never seemed perturbed about the dangers of wheelchair activity. The experience, I think, is often much worse for the person responsible to drive. I guess for him, he had no choice but to surrender.

Bon Iver stepped on stage. Little did he know, there was a man in the audience for whom this would be his last live concert. I don’t remember much of the genius that Bon Iver displayed that night, I was too full of emotion and realisation that Andrew and I would not do this again - this was a last. I could tell that he was so invested in every note, listening intently to the chord progressions and being present with his whole being. I could tell he also knew that this was a last and I felt sick wondering what that would be like for him.

Usually I’m not a fan of encores but this night I would have given anything for the encore not to end.

Six months into treatment for an aggressive brain tumour, Andrew had a haemorrhage that left him in partial paralysis. Despite the trauma of these early days of diagnosis, he constantly rose to roar in the face of fear and this night was no different. As Bon Iver began his final song and the crowd got to their feet, I watched, in total admiration, as Andrew placed his working hand on the arm of the chair, settled his feet in a stable position, braced himself and stood up. That image is forever burnt into my mind with such beauty and pain. The music seemed to curl around us as stage light passed across our bodies delving the moment into surreal. I couldn’t move, I just sat there, tears running their path down my face and watching the incredible bravery of my brother.

The internal world of my brother was always a deep ocean. Over the course of his illness I watched him dive beneath the waters of chaos - the thoughts he had there, the dreams he buried there, the hope he mustered there, none will ever know.